


Countdown

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Dean's doing math in the dark, insomniac math, counting down till the alarm goes off.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> _Written for the[salt_burn_porn](http://www.livejournal.com/community/salt_burn_porn) challenge -- on the fly in the middle of the night, sans beta, based on a prompt from [someblazingstar](http://someblazingstar.livejournal.com): _ Sleepless _. Now that he's all souled up again, I think Sam can help Dean out with his little insomnia problem. :)_

~

Dean's doing math in the dark, insomniac math, counting down till the alarm goes off. He's good with seven hours, that's almost like eight, but six, six can be harder. Used to be, he could get by with two and a bottle of Mountain Dew, but then he came back from Hell and they'd changed the formula or something, plus he started to get kind of old. He remembers thinking Dad was old when Dad wasn't much older than Dean is now, so either Dean's actually old, or he's finally old enough to know just how young he used to be. Either way, these days he can't be trusted with guns on less than five. Less than five, he has to squint at the buttons on his phone and volunteers for interviews and research. Best to leave all the shooting stuff to Sam.

He's down to four when Sam's breathing changes, when Sam's hand flails out from beneath his covers and grabs at the clock on the nightstand between their beds. Sam makes a sound like an ailing water buffalo when he sees the numbers, and puts the clock down harder than he has to.

"Dean," he groans. "Dude. It's the middle of the night."

"Shut up," Dean says. "I wasn't making any noise."

Sam struggles up from the tangle of his blankets, props himself on his elbows, and looks over at Dean in the other bed. Dean can barely make out the shape of him in the watery silver light coming through the curtain. A big Sam-shape, and at the top of it Dean imagines a big Sam-head making Sam-faces of annoyance and concern.

"What's wrong?" Sam says, like he expects Dean to just tell him; like he thinks he has a right to know. It's beautiful, is what that is -- that Sam-sized sense of entitlement, something so very _Sam_ that it was gone till Sam got his soul back. RoboSam tried to reason with Dean, tried to trick the truth out of him, to get him to do what Sam wanted. Sam -- real Sam, honest to God _Sam fucking Winchester_ \-- deep in his immortal soul he just expects to be answered and obeyed.

Dean grins at the ceiling, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Can't sleep," he says, which is true enough, but not the whole truth. Sam snorts, because he knows it, because he's annoyed and thwarted and can't do anything about it. He may be bigger, he may be stronger, he may have reach on Dean now. But Dean has a lifetime of experience pissing his little brother off, and the gears may be a little rusty but they still turn when he wants them to.

"Shove over," Sam says.

Dean turns, his eyes narrowing at the patch of dark where he thinks Sam's head is. "Excuse me?"

"I'm _tired_ ," Sam says. The bed creaks when he sits up; for a second he looms over Dean in the dark, and then he's lifting up the covers and climbing in beside Dean, and Dean shoves the hell over because it's that or get himself both crushed and smothered. Sam's a big dude. "We have to sleep."

"Well, this should help," Dean says. "So much easier to sleep when I don't have to worry about falling out of this gigantic twin bed. Thank you."

Sam fits himself up against Dean's back, tangles their feet together. Loops an arm over Dean's side, and pulls him in close. "Hey," he mumbles into Dean's shoulder. "This okay?"

Okay. Dean can't breathe, can't move, and he's entirely lost track of his math. Sam's hand trails down from the center of Dean's chest and slides under the waistband of his shorts; Dean loses track of everything. Sam's hand is warm, gentle. Slow. He opens his mouth against the side of Dean's neck, sinks his teeth in a little and nudges his dick into the crack of Dean's ass, all at the same time. Dean lets out a choked sound, arches, and Sam's mouth curves against his skin.

"All wound up," Sam whispers. His voice is a deep, low scrape across Dean's nerves. "Let me help."

Oh, _let_ him. Dean bites at his lip, eyes squeezed shut. Let him _help_. Like Sam's hand on him for the first time in years will _calm him down_. Like everything is just like it was when things were good, like they can just do this, slide back into this, like the years in between never happened.

"Missed you," Sam tells him, sliding a leg between his, holding Dean open under his hand, giving himself room to work. His fingers skate over Dean's skin in lazy patterns; they find their old places, and Dean shoves up to meet them, asking for more and getting more all at once. Sam missed him, Sam wants him; Sam is here, so they can do this, Dean wants so badly to do this.

"Sam." Dean says it because he can, because it means everything it's supposed to now. His fingers close around Sam's wrist, not to stop him, not to push him away. Just to touch him, just to hold on. "Sammy, please..."

"I've got you," Sam whispers. He shifts against Dean's back, his dick hard and hot, and then he shoves Dean's waistband down and there's nothing between them, and Sam's even, calm breathing kicks up into a ragged, noisy gasp. "Got you," he says again, "Let me, just--"

"Fuck me," Dean says roughly, and Sam groans and rubs against his ass, rubs his thumb over the head of Dean's dick, and it's too good, too fast for anything more than what it already is. But saying it feels good, wanting it feels good. Knowing Sam wants to give it to him, after everything that's happened, after everything they've been and haven't been for each other -- it's nothing like it was when things were good. It's better, it's like lightning under his skin, bright and hot and devastating. It's everything.

"I will," Sam promises him, low and sweet, his hands like a brand on Dean's skin. "I want it. I want you. I want--"

"Yeah," Dean says, and then, "Please," and " _Sam_ " and he's gone, gushing over Sam's fingers in a warm, sticky mess, rutting through it, shaking through it, Sam's arms around him the only thing holding him together. Sam comes with him, teeth scraping against Dean's throat, a groan rising up from the center of his chest so loud Dean can _feel_ it against his back.

In the quiet after, the minutes run together. Sam shifts, rubs his hand dry against the blanket, rubs Dean dry with a corner of the sheet. He shifts again, closer; he keeps his arms around Dean, heat coming off him like a furnace. It's so familiar, so sweet, so far from anything they've given each other for longer than Dean can think about -- it's like a memory, and Dean thinks, maybe it is; maybe it's a dream, maybe he managed to fall asleep after all.

"I'll still be here in the morning," Sam says to him, annoyed; he gives Dean a rough little shake. "We'll do this better. Take our time. You believe me, right?"

Dean relaxes into Sam's body and closes his eyes. Sam's too grumpy to be a dream, too solid to be a memory. Too _Sam_ for Dean to doubt him, even for a minute. "I believe you'll be here," he tells Sam, hazy and sincere. He's already starting to drift. "But _better?_ On less than four hours of sleep? I don't know..."

"Trust me," Sam says, smiling against his shoulder. "I turned off the alarm."

~

  


  
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